When My Heart Joins the Thousand(30)

The question catches me off guard.

“You could have chosen anyone, you know,” he says. “Anyone you wanted. For your first time. You’re a beautiful, intelligent young woman. Do you not know that?”

He’s making fun of me. He must be. “Shut up,” I mutter. “I saw the books in your desk.”

His cheeks color. “I bought those books because I wanted to understand you better. That’s all. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. I never did.”

I cross my arms, tightly gripping my own elbows.

“Sit down,” he says. “Please?”

I hesitate, then sit in the chair. He eases himself onto the couch, across from me.

“When did you figure it out,” I ask. “About me.”

“I, uh. I kind of suspected right away.”

So, it’s that obvious. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. “There was a part you underlined. About empathy.”

His brows knit together. “What— Oh, that? I underlined it because it seemed wrong to me. I mean, you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.”

Kind. Where does he get these ideas? When have I ever done anything kind? “They’re talking about cognitive empathy.”

“What’s that? I don’t remember the books using that phrase.”

“It’s the ability to read, analyze, and predict other people’s emotions. That’s what I . . . what people like me tend to struggle with.”

The idea that autistic people don’t feel compassion is just an ugly stereotype, but it’s a viewpoint I’ve encountered even from some professionals, despite obvious evidence to the contrary. For instance, Temple Grandin—probably the most well-known autistic person alive—designed a more humane type of slaughterhouse for cattle, one which keeps them calm and stress-free up until the end. She cared enough to reduce the unnecessary suffering that so many animals experience for humans’ convenience. How could anyone not see that as compassion?

“One of the books said that a lot of people with Asperger’s aren’t even aware that they have it,” Stanley says.

I rub my thumb absently against the brown corduroy of the couch. “I’m aware.”

For most of my childhood, my diagnosis was PDD-NOS—pervasive developmental disorder not otherwise specified. They changed it to Asperger’s when I was fourteen. In the next volume of the DSM, the Asperger’s diagnosis was dropped, so technically my condition doesn’t even exist anymore; if I ever go back to the doctor, they’ll presumably have to find some other label to stick on me. The specific words don’t matter. I’ll always be this way.

“I don’t like being sorted and categorized,” I say. “I am who I am. I shouldn’t need a word for it. I don’t understand why I can’t just . . . be. Why everyone has to—” I breathe a small sigh, frustrated with my inability to explain.

Silence stretches between us. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, like he’s talking to himself, almost. “At times like these, I really wish I could give you a hug.”

I consider this for a moment. It’s been years since I’ve hugged anyone. The few times it’s happened during my teenage years have been without warning and against my will—usually foster parents who didn’t understand my boundary issues—so it was generally a stressful and unpleasant experience. But with Stanley, it might be different. He’s always gentle and careful, so I know he wouldn’t squeeze the breath out of me. But the thought still makes me uneasy, for reasons I can’t entirely put into words.

It occurs to me, then, that Stanley might himself want the reassurance of physical contact, independent of whether I find it pleasurable. “When was your last time,” I ask.

“What, hugging?”

“Yes.”

“Um.” His gaze shifts away. “It’s been a while.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?”

I sit next to him on the couch. “We can try it, if you want.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re sure?”

“Just do it.”

Slowly—very slowly—he slides his arms around me. When I don’t flinch, he pulls me closer, but his grip remains loose so I can get away if I want to. I sit, tense, focusing on my own breathing. His hand rests on my back, between my shoulder blades. Gradually the tension recedes. I hook an arm awkwardly around his waist. Even through his sweater, I can feel how thin he is. His body is a collection of sharp angles, his spine a line of tiny knobs. And there’s something else—a long, bumpy ridge running across his back. My fingertips wander down the length of it. “What is this from.”

A few seconds pass before he replies. “When I was a kid, I used to go ice-skating. I was good at it. Then when I was ten, I slipped and broke my scapula. They had to open me up to put all the fragments back in place, and for months I slept on my stomach because my back was full of surgical pins.”

The thought makes my own back ache. “That sounds bad.”

“It was the worst.”

I raise my head to look into his eyes. Our faces are very close together.

Ordinarily I’d be panicking by now, overwhelmed by the flood of touch and closeness, but there’s no fear, no sense that I’m losing control. It’s just warm. When I rest my cheek against his sweater vest, over his heart, I feel the movement within, like a small living creature. “You smell like a library,” I murmur.